


Sacrificium

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [15]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: It is a calculated risk, one that Rufus is prepared to make even if the notion of Tseng not succeeding is unthinkable.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915873
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	Sacrificium

**Author's Note:**

> Some consensual breath play, and allusions to character death.

It’s late when Tseng finds him, seated at his desk, presiding over an empire on the brink of chaos. For a man so long denied power, Tseng finds that he does not begrudge the position Rufus Shinra now finds himself in. It is as if the old President had ensured that Rufus’ rule would be a brief one fraught with turmoil, one final and lasting cruelty.

It was not supposed to be this way. Their shared vision of ruling Midgar, Tseng at his right hand, advising, calculating, loyal. Instead it has been sleepless nights, and a global chase to apprehend Sephiroth.

It’s been weeks since Rufus has touched him, not since the coronation where Rufus had entered their shared suite, discarded his trenchcoat, and demanded with sweet lips against Tseng’s to be fucked. Too focused on his work, his duty to Midgar, to them all to allow himself the indulgence of Tseng’s touch, it has been many long nights, Rufus returning to his rooms in the hours before dawn, quietly watching from the doorway of their bedroom as Tseng slept alone.

‘Mr President.’

Rufus looks up from where he’s been staring at a report, peering over the rim of glasses he wears for reading, a lifetime of staring at reports, computer screens, and down the sight of his shotgun leaving him with a bit of hyperopia. One of Heidegger’s, Tseng assesses. The head of Public Safety seemed to relish in sending the young President lengthy and somewhat unnecessary documents that required his approval. And Rufus, ever the perfectionist, would peruse each word in full before signing his name in a bored flourish. The signature had become a bit illegible of late, ink smearing from the nib of his white resin fountain pen in an arc that appeared to be the beginning of an ‘R’ and a jagged swirl of scribble.

Rufus pulls off his glasses and presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a tension headache, preparing himself for what is assuredly dismal news. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s late, Rufus.’ No longer Turk, but lover, dark eyes observing the way Rufus’ posture seems to be set on edge, shoulders squared, light eyes shadowed with purple bruises, and that small line of worry between arched brows seems more prominent these days. ‘Come to bed.’

There’s softness in those eyes then, for a brief moment Tseng thinks Rufus might look relieved before he checks himself and the facade slips back into place. ‘I can’t afford the luxury.’ Rufus gives an errant wave of his hand, as if the simple gesture might dispel his Turk’s concern. 

Tseng leans closer then, suddenly quite imposing, encroaching on Rufus’ personal space in a way that is entirely against protocol. ‘You’re no good to anyone if you don't get some sleep.’

‘What must it look like if those around me keep working, and the President cannot.’

‘They’ve all gone home.’ Tseng suggests helpfully, questioning when Rufus had last looked at the time or left his office. ‘If you’ll forgive me, Sir. I do not think Tuesti will begrudge you getting some much needed rest.’ He had seen the Director of Urban Development behind a monitor screen in his office only minutes before. Whatever he was doing with AVALANCHE has had him keeping very long hours at the workplace.

Tseng sighs then, tilting his head to the side in a manner that might be a bit patronizing. ‘Rufus.’ A gloved hand reaches out to thread their fingers together as he moves in closer still, dark hair cascading in a fall over his shoulder as he closes the distance between them with a kiss. His lips curl into a smile as he feels Rufus’ mouth parting beneath his, breath misting as he sweeps his tongue along the sharp edge of Rufus’ teeth. ‘Come to bed, Mr President.’

‘Fine.’ Rufus straightens in his chair, and stares up at him with a look of vague annoyance ‘It’ll all be here tomorrow, I suppose.’

It is a short walk back to Rufus’ apartment, and with no one left to care what or _who_ the President of Shinra might do, Tseng’s hand lingers at the small of Rufus’ back.

Rufus’ apartment is dark, cast in looming shadows. With three reactors still down, the city no longer glows the way it once did, and Rufus knows Midgar seems dimmer these days, as if the gleaming era in which he had hoped to usher in had been shrouded beneath a gloom of uncertainty. It has made him work doubly hard, unwilling to admit that perhaps his father had been correct in his lasting assessment of his son’s inadequacies. 

He recalls the vision of his city ruined, the ashen wreck of a fallen empire, laid to waste, forgotten. He will not allow that, refuses to sacrifice Midgar even if he knows that saving it may require a personal one.

Tseng leaves tomorrow. A mission for which Rufus can trust no other. To apprehend and eliminate the former general known as Sephiroth. It is a calculated risk, one that Rufus is prepared to make even if the notion of Tseng not succeeding is unthinkable. There is a guilt there, though, in knowing that they have come to this. What is the life of a single Turk, if his city lay in the balance? It fills him with a lancing ache.

Rufus turns to Tseng in the darkness, and crushes their mouths together. If he must say goodbye, he will be selfish tonight, weeks of pent up need crashing around them in an inexorable tide, Tseng’s tongue is in his mouth as his gloved hand works its way beneath the waistband of Rufus’ trousers, palming the curve of his ass as he pulls him closer. Rufus moans, thrusting against the sharp of Tseng’s hip.

‘Do you forgive me?’ Lips at Tseng’s ear. The guilt of what he has ordered crushing.

To this Tseng says nothing, only kisses him. Mouth closing over the question still on Rufus’ lips. He knows what Rufus’ longs for tonight, like he knows every curve and contour and jutting bone concealed beneath the fabric of Rufus' finely tailored suit by memory. There is no gentleness between them, Tseng already working his hands under Rufus’ jacket, pushing it off his shoulders before discarding it in a drape of white. A hand winds around the dark silk of Rufus’ tie, and tugs just slightly causing the knot at his throat to tighten.

Light eyes flutter shut, as he jerks against Tseng. ‘Please.’

Tseng shoves him back against the window, a gloved hand already at Rufus’ throat, thumb pressing threateningly against his trachea. The moan that escapes Rufus’ lips is all the encouragement he needs tonight, stripping Rufus of his tie, shirt opened. He ducks a head to swirl his tongue around one nipple, then the other, lavishing kisses upon the smooth expanse of Rufus’ chest, trailing his mouth upwards along his collarbone, the line of his jaw, before once more taking Rufus’ mouth in his own. He kisses him thoroughly, with an intent and longing. He will be gone before dawn, but for tonight he longs for this, the taste and feel of his lover’s body beneath his, to write each line and curve of Rufus’ body into memory.

Rufus is grasping at his cock through his trousers, one hand slipping inside, feeling along the length and moaning. The fingers at his throat tighten. Rufus is defiant as ever, pinned against the glass, struggling to breathe.

Tseng’s to his credit makes not a single sound, instead staring now intently at Rufus with dark eyes, but he does thrust into that hand. Even he has his limits, and after weeks of the company of only his own hand and his thoughts of his lover debauched before him, the sight of Rufus with gloved fingers wrapped around his throat, wanton and willing and submissive. He frees himself from his trousers, ‘On your knees.’

Rufus complies, dropping to the floor before his Turk. He strokes Tseng’s cock a few times to full hardness, tongue curling against the head to taste the drop of precum teasingly, eyes closing. A hand grasps at blonde hair, jerking his head back. ‘No, you look at me tonight, Mr President.’ Tseng’s cock brushes against Rufus’ lips, as he leans forward forcing Rufus’ to take him fully inside. Tseng does gasp then at the feel of that wet heat. He loves every way in which he can have Rufus, but the young man is particularly skilled at giving head, and seeing the most powerful man in the world on his knees before him, sucking his dick heightens the pleasure, that this is for them alone.

He begins to thrust, eyes clouded with desire as he watches as Rufus takes him deeper. His hand finds itself once again pressed against that pale neck, the pressure of his grip adding friction of sliding further into Rufus’ throat. Rufus stares up at him with lustful eyes, utterly surrendering to Tseng.

Tseng’s close, too close, and he pulls away from the pleasure of Rufus’ mouth with a groan, dragging Rufus up into a kiss, lips moving to mouth against his ear. He has missed this, the feel of Rufus’ body against his own, and wishes that his lover would not insist on this distance. They were supposed to do this together, but now, Rufus is bone weary, and aloof. And not for the first time, Tseng knows that he will never be enough, not when Midgar hangs in the balance, the city that has been Rufus’ obsession for so very long, may prove to be his ruin.

They part for a moment, divesting themselves of whatever articles of clothing still remained, unconcerned with the pile of designer suits, and ties, and 120,000 gil leather shoes discarded carelessly on the floor. 

They fall in a tangle of limbs to the floor, bodies cushioned by the finely knotted Wutaian silk rug. Tseng mouths at the sharp of Rufus’ hip, kissing along the length of his cock, tongue moving lower still, probing tentatively at the tight ring of muscle at the cleft of his lover’s ass, eliciting a sound that can only be described as a cry from Rufus’ lips.

Tseng enters him in one thrust, hips flush against the curve of Rufus’ ass, and stills, already shuddering at the sensation of being sheathed inside that tight heat. Rufus cries out once. The only encouragement Tseng needs before he starts moving, strokes long, deliberate, bracing Rufus’ thigh against his shoulder as he drives in further, his hand once more clutching his neck in a vice grip. ‘Look at me.’

Rufus does, light eyes locking intensely on his lover’s, breath shallow as Tseng’ clenches more tightly, knowing just the amount of pressure to apply to heighten the pleasure. Each movement expertly practiced, as he zeros in on that spot that he knows will make Rufus’ come undone. He drives into the body pinned beneath his, Rufus gasping and clawing at his shoulders, nails a dull pressure through his shirt. ‘Touch yourself.’

Rufus does, stroking along his length, staring up at Tseng, eyes now glassy as he struggles to breathe, each thrust of Tseng’s cock driving him closer, poised between ecstasy and the unyielding pressure of Tseng’s hand clamping down. His eyes are defiant now, a challenge, daring Tseng.

He presses harder still, each thrust calculated, unrelenting. He knows Rufus is close, and with the sight before him, Rufus’ splayed out, struggling to breath, and so very trusting, giving himself up to Tseng, knows he won’t last much longer.

The leather of his glove creaks, as his thumb moves to effectively cut off Rufus’ air supply. It is a dangerous game they play were it not for the utmost precision Tseng puts into this act, knowing exactly the correct amount of pressure to keep Rufus on the very edge of breath. He shifts, moving until both of Rufus’ thighs are against his shoulders, offering him unrestricted access to driving into Rufus’ ass. The President of Shinra struggles beneath him, one hand finally reaching for Tseng’s wrist, clutching, but he does not attempt to stop Tseng. His thrusts become erratic, chasing down his release as he pounds into Rufus, tightening his grip on Rufus’ neck with each jerk of his hips.

It hits Tseng in a blinding wave of pleasure, Rufus whining high in his throat, a choked sound that comes barely eked out from his lips as Tseng holds fast, knowing that the deprivation will only heighten his lover’s orgasm. His breath a harsh gasp against Rufus’ collarbone as he comes. Rufus joins him moments later, eyes clenched shut, as it hits him, heat flooding across his hand and chest. Tseng holds him there a moment longer, watching as Rufus shudders beneath him. He releases his grip, allowing Rufus to breathe, and leans forward to capture his wet mouth in a kiss, swallowing his shallow gasps, filling Rufus’ lungs with his own breath.

Rufus lays boneless on the floor, chest heaving, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes as he stares up at the ceiling in an attempt to refocus his bearings.

‘Rufus?’ Tseng’s voice cuts through the post orgasmic haze, and he leans in closer to inspect his lover with concerned eyes. He presses a kiss to his brow, the skin flushed and damp with exertion. ‘Let’s get you a bath.’

Rufus reclines in the tub some time later, head pillowed against a folded towel, eyes lidded, a coupe of chilled champagne dangling from tapered fingers, as steam rises around them. There’s a certain melancholy about him this night, as the weight of his orders settle around them once more.

Tseng stares at him from across the scented water, bergamot, rosemary, and spice wafting, permeating Tseng’s hair, and skin. Anyone who recognizes the scent will know, their relationship is less of a secret now, but Tseng does advise caution. His hand creeps along Rufus’ submerged ankle, kneading the calf. ‘Forgive me if that was too much tonight.’

Rufus looks to Tseng, then, shakes his head a little.

‘If it’s the mission.’

‘It’s not.’ He falters, takes a sip of his champagne and looks away, focusing on the groutwork that suddenly has become quite interesting.

‘Rufus. Look at me.’

He does, blue eyes clouded with something Tseng might mistake for fear.

‘I am a Turk, it is my duty.’

‘I wish it were someone else.’ The words slip off his lips before he has time to check himself, and he knows that he’s given himself away. There is doubt, trepidation, worry that he is sending Tseng after a madman, one who none of them can be certain is even alive. The Jenova cells swirling about his DNA making him something more, perhaps something unkillable, unstoppable. He’s sending the only person on the planet in which he wholly trusts without question, he is Rufus’ greatest asset, trained to efficiently eliminate outside threats, and he must believe that Tseng can apprehend Sephiroth.

He downs the last of his champagne and rises from the bath, limbs tinged pink from the heat of the water. Tseng watches him as he dries off, slicks back his light blonde hair, and smiles. He finds that he’s never more in love than when he is watching Rufus Shinra go about private tasks. He’s just finished brushing his teeth, when Tseng slides up behind him, plush white towel slung around slim hips. He pulls him into a kiss, Rufus tasting of mint and lavender, and the lingering hint of alcohol. It’s intoxicating and Tseng falls to his knees before Rufus, kissing up the line of his thigh.

‘You know you are my everything.’ 

Rufus slides his fingers into damp strands of black. ‘I’m tired.’

It is not an outright rejection, but Tseng withdraws leaning up to press a kiss to the inside of Rufus’ palm, thumb lingering against the pulse at his wrist, feeling the life within.

‘Don’t be long.’ Rufus kisses the corner of Tseng’s mouth, as he slips away into the bedroom.

Rufus is buried beneath the fluffy down comforter, robe discarded in a drape along the foot of the bed, when Tseng emerges from the bathroom a short while later, towel damp hair pulled into a haphazard knot, dressed in a dark t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He looks downright domestic out of his suit. He regards where Rufus is nearly lost beneath the pile of white, blonde hair poking above the edge. He slides beneath the covers beside him, pulling him against him, arms winding around Rufus’ shoulders, legs wrapping around his, tangling together.

His lips find the nape of Rufus’ neck as he holds him close.

After a while, Rufus finally speaks, his voice jolting Tseng who’d thought his lover had drifted off to sleep. 'I had a vision.’ He stares out into the darkness, beyond the expansive windows, to the cloudy green tinged skies, remembering it filled with those dark shadows. ‘The night my father died.'

He turns to look at Tseng then, propping himself up on one elbow, light eyes seeking out Tseng’s in the dark. Thinks of Tseng there, bleeding out somewhere amid the ruins, crimson creeping along the white of his shirt, as droplets fell to the stone floor below. His brow creases then with worry. 'You were--'

'No.' The word is firm, final. Whatever Rufus thinks he’s seen, whatever he believes, Tseng refuses to allow him to voice it, for he has had his own misgivings, and it seems a ghoulish thing, indeed, to give those fears a name.

Rufus presses a hand against his torso, fingers moving along the thin fabric of his shirt as if searching for a scar.

‘What is it?’

_Don’t go._ Rufus in that moment looks haunted.

Tseng captures his chin in his hand, tilting Rufus to meet his gaze once more. ‘I’ll be fine, Rufus. I’ll have Rude, and you remember Elena, the new recruit.’ To her credit, the young woman was quite the deadly shot, in time she would make a formidable Turk. ‘You’ve been overworking yourself, my love.’

Rufus’ hand lingers. ‘I can’t afford to lose you.’

‘You won’t.’

It is hours before Rufus finally drifts to sleep, the soft sound of Tseng’s breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against him no longer a comfort, but an ache.

When he wakes, Tseng is gone. He stares through the half light of dawn, reaching for the place that his lover has so recently lain, hand ghosting along the rumpled bedsheets, feeling for any lingering trace of him there.

It’s been 5 days since Rufus has last heard from Tseng, the cursory phone calls becoming few as he and Elena travel further into the uncharted jungles of the southernmost islands. Tseng is equipped with a radio set to the Turks' frequency, but even that rarely works until after dark.

He saves each voice message, but does not replay them. Tseng always sticks to protocol when reporting, but beneath each word there are the hidden endearments, telling Rufus how he cares for him, and misses him in words like, _‘I’ll report back as soon as possible, Mr President.’_.

Rufus busies himself with the ever growing mountain of paperwork that requires his approval. There are meetings with Heidegger and Scarlet to discuss their next plan of action, what to do with AVALANCHE, what contingency plans are in place in the unlikely event Tseng fails to apprehend Sephiroth. He tries not to worry, especially when Rude returns after bidding farewell to his fellow Turks outside Mideel, his expertise needed elsewhere now that Reno is back in action, having made a full recovery from injuries sustained during the plate collapse.

But he does. He worries, and waits, and each buzz of his PHS and private message across the corporate intranet makes his pulse quicken with anticipation and apprehension. He drinks more, now that he is alone, champagne eschewed for brandy. He finds himself alone at night imagining that Tseng has returned, victorious, the maddened former general defeated, Midgar saved. He thinks of Tseng’s hands upon his body, his lips on his cock as he touches himself, he moans into the darkness of his bedroom as he makes use of the finely crafted toys he keeps hidden away in his bedside drawer. Hard glass instead of hard flesh, drawing a picture of Tseng in his mind, naked body glistening above his own with the fine sheen of sweat, dark hair brushing against his collarbone as he fucks him thoroughly. He clenches around the glass phallus, hand working himself to release, and cries out Tseng’s name into the emptiness of his rooms. He thinks to call him, then, to tell him his fears, to admit that he has made a mistake, and that Tseng is in dire danger, that he’s not willing to sacrifice him to save Midgar, that they do this together or not at all. The knowledge that the call will never reach him weighs heavily on Rufus, and he turns away into his pillows, breathing in the lingering scent of Tseng, and thinks were he a religious man, he might pray.

It’s another 4 days before he receives word. It’s Elena, her voice shaky over the broken connection, a voice mail left in the early hours of the morning. It’s nearly static when he replays it, but she’s alive, and that gives him hope of a successful mission. The words, _‘Sephiroth.’_ , _‘AVALANCHE’_ , and _‘He’s gone, Sir.’_.

He goes about his daily routine. It’s a long flight back to Junon, where he knows they will recuperate before the journey back home. 

News comes 8 hours later. Rufus has gone out to retrieve dinner from the company lounge. Hardly the culinary fare he’s accustomed to, but these dire times require certain sacrifices, and truthfully the sushi isn’t bad. Tamagoyaki, kappamaki, and umeboshi piled onto a resin platter. He’s checking his latest emails, absently poking at his meal with his chopsticks when he notices the new file that’s been left on his desk.

He opens the file, light eyes perusing the report when his blood runs cold. In bold red typeface the words _‘Tseng reported MIA, presumed dead.’_ The file slips from his hand, papers scatter like fallen leaves.

_No._

No one had even thought it worth telling him personally. He stands abruptly, pushing his desk chair away, and stares back at the report.

‘No.’ He couldn’t stop it. As if his every move has led them here to this place.

Rufus stumbles, a gloved hand reaching out toward his desk to steady himself. He breathes, one breath in, another out. There will be no time to mourn.

He looks up. Reeve Tuesti is there, posture rigid, the lines on his face belying the dire news he has come to confirm.

‘Mr President.’ he begins, faltering as he takes in the sight before him, and seems to understand. Shinra’s worst kept secret. He lowers his head respectfully. ‘Forgive me, Sir.’

‘Tseng.’ It’s no longer a question. Tuesti would have seen it first hand. His lover's death at the hands of Sephiroth, impaled on the end of Masamune’s blade.

‘He is presumed lost, Sir. The temple caved in on itself. Sephiroth--’

‘Enough.’ He raises his hand to halt any further conversation, he can’t do this right now, not here, before Reeve. ‘Meet with Heidegger to debrief.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He watches numbly as the Director of Urban Development makes a hasty retreat, and knows that he cannot remain here. He needs the security of his rooms, to process this in private.

He makes the short walk back as if in a daze. Eyes unfocused as the halls seem to collapse in on themselves. He swipes his keycard, and steps inside, ignoring the way Darkstar whines at his return. He slides to the floor then, head lowered against dark fur, as he tries to imagine a world without Tseng at his side. ‘He’s gone, girl.’

Rufus sits alone in the darkness of his apartment, it’s been hours he thinks. He’s given up on the familiar notion that Tseng will walk through the door any moment now, tired and weary, perhaps a little worse for wear, a few new cuts and bruises, but whole and alive and his.

The bourbon is Tseng's, he pours a glass, then another, swallowing each in a burning gulp, remembering the way it tasted on Tseng's lips, and on his tongue. The Turk was never one for drinking on duty aside from the occasional glass of wine, at least not to the extent of his fellow colleagues, but he did partake in the privacy of Rufus’ rooms, something to take the edge off after a long day, and Rufus has become accustomed to the smell of it on him when they’d fucked.

The dark amber liquid sloshes into his glass, his precision a bit hindered as the liquor numbs his senses. He takes another sip, this time savouring the feel of it against his tongue, the punishing burn of it, the way it leaves him feeling strangely warm. It is nothing like the chilled effervescence of the bubbles he so adores. He thinks to the way the two flavours would meld together as their tongues met, Tseng’s gloved hand at his chin, mouth closing over his as they held one another.

The decanter explodes into faceted crystal against the tile floor, as the smell of oak and alcohol permeates the air.

For a moment he thinks he might go mad with it. The rolling nausea, anger, hopelessness. He wants to scream, and weep, and throw himself to his long repressed emotions, to let years of rage and grief tear themselves free, and to drown and be lost within the tempest. Instead, he does nothing. Not a single tear, even as his throat seizes painfully, hand gripping the tumbler.

He throws it as well. Finding dark satisfaction in the sound of it shattering, the way the crystal scatters across the floor, the dim mako glow catching on the shards, setting them alight like particles from the Lifestream.

He crumples onto the floor, suddenly unable to breathe. ‘No, no.’ A wail of agony finally tears itself from his throat, as he beats his fist against the cold marble. Tseng, Tseng, Tseng. He was never supposed to mean so much.

He rakes hands through light strands of hair in a futile effort to stop the throbbing pain inside his head. There are tears then, the burning anguish of rage and grief made manifest. He swipes at them furiously, knowing that if he were to let them fall now, they might never stop. And there is no time. Not now. If Tseng has failed, then that means Sephiroth has succeeded.

He rises, pours himself a glass of brandy. There will be no time for him to mourn, but this night he will spend it alone in the company of strong liquor, numbing his pain in the only way he knows how. There are painkillers, as well. He’s never had a habit, but Tseng kept them stashed away in his medicine cabinet for the nights after a particularly trying mission. He tosses 2 into his hand, ignoring the nagging voice warning him of mixing opioids with alcohol. What’s a few years shaved off his life now?

He stretches across the floor, dressed in only his shirt and slacks, blonde hair tumbling carelessly over blue eyes as he stares up at the ceiling above. The room seems to list ever so slightly, he closes his eyes, and it begins to spin.

He thinks to those visions, of Tseng, Midgar, and knows with a certainty that he will not survive.

_fin_


End file.
